


for queen and country

by Pinkmanite



Category: James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Ficlet, Interrogation, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-06 05:16:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14634873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pinkmanite/pseuds/Pinkmanite
Summary: “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be, Quartermaster.”“James, just tell them. Tell them it’s not me.”





	for queen and country

**Author's Note:**

> hi this may or may not be crossposted on tumblr (baewhishaw), I'm just moving things over to AO3 for safekeeping ♡

Q doesn’t remember why his head is pounding, nor why the blurry world is swaying. All he can gather is that he can’t move his arms, he can’t move his legs. He realises that he’s tied up to a chair and his glasses are missing. He tries to call out but his throat catches. He groans out in pain.

“Oh good, you’re awake.”

The figure is calmly pacing a few feet away. Q kicks himself for not noticing before. This is a kidnapping. He needs to alert MI6. Q immediately runs his tongue along his teeth, searching the area of inner cheek hidden by upper molars. He feels for the small bump and presses down firmly, using all of the energy he can gather. The bump vibrates in three short successions, signaling that a distress signal had been sent with his coordinates. He breathes his relief.

The moment is short-lived. A familiar beep echoes on the walls. It’s the other end of the distress signal, a notification beep. It clicks. Q inhales sharply.

“You’re MI6,” Q manages to bite out. 

“Of course I am.” The voice is familiar and Q freezes.

“Double-oh Nine?”

“We have you on video, Q. Smuggling boxes out of headquarters and again handing them off to a broker. We know it’s you, just cooperate and it won’t be so bad, alright? Just cooperate.”

Q’s eyes widen despite his lacking vision. This can’t be happening. 

“What are you talking about? It’s not me,” Q rasps. He tugs helplessly at his binds.

“Who do you work for?”

“MI6. I work for MI6. Please, Double-oh Nine, you have to believe me. Even if I were a traitor, I wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave a trace! I’m the Quartermaster for christ sake--”

Suddenly Q’s cheek is flaming hot and all he can hear is bloody ringing in his ears. He doesn’t register the crunch of fist-meets-face until he starts coughing. Fuck that hurts his throat.

“What have you told them?”

“Nothing,” Q spits, anger beginning to tint his words. “I haven’t told anyone shit about anything. I’m loyal, I swear, I’m loyal.”

“Q, just tell me who you work for and we can stop. Who is it?” Double-oh Nine has his fist raised. Q shakes his head at the blurred figure and tenses in anticipation of the blow. The agent sighs and turns away.

“I’m sorry, I can’t do this. This isn’t going anywhere,” he says to no one in particular. Must be M, then. He’s probably watching from his office. Q wonders what’s going on outside the interrogation room. Who’s handling Q-branch? Who’s monitoring the comms with the agents abroad? Who’s been gathering evidence against him? Who knows about them and who hates him now?

Where’s James?

Q flinches when the door is yanked open, flooding the interrogation room in bright, clinical light. Must be the high security unit, Q decides. It’s both flattering and frightening that M thinks that he’s such a risk.

There’s only a minute of peace between the time that Double-oh Nine leaves and the next agent comes in. 

Q’s heart stops. 

“James! James, please, tell them to stop. It’s not me, you know that! James,” Q becomes frantic but is inwardly relieved. James Bond knows he’s innocent and will do anything to protect him. Q  _ knows _ that. He knows because Double-oh Seven is  _ his  _ James and he knows Q better than Q knows himself.

“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be, Quartermaster.”

“James, just tell them. Tell them it’s not me.”

Bond closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Q can vaguely see him shuffle through his pockets until he pulls something out and slips it over Q’s face. It’s a standard pair of prescription glasses from Medical. They’re the type that are built to take an impact without breaking. 

And just like that, everything comes into focus both visually and mentally.

The man in front of him isn’t his James. It’s Double-oh Seven, the assassin, the trained killer. Q stills and tries to fight back his emotions. However, one look into Bond’s eyes and seeing nothing but coldness causes Q to tear up. He can’t hold it all back. 

He curses when he feels a tear slip out the corner of his eye. So much for upholding the facade.

“Tell me who it is,” Bond grabs Q’s chin and squeezes his jaw, forcing him to look up at him. Q swallows and tries his best to convey his innocence through the look he sends Bond.

“How could you do this to me?” Q gasps when his head hits the ground and bounces. He struggles to catch his breath again but Bond lands a sharp kick to his abdomen and Q is sputtering. Still bound to the chair, the backrest digs uncomfortably into his spine.

“It’s not true! Why don’t you believe me?” Q cuts into a coughing fit, glaring helplessly at Bond. 

“This is my curse, isn’t it,” Bond drops to the ground, grabs a fistful of Q’s hair, and yanks him closer. He leans down to growl in his ear, “I’m forever to be fooled into false love, only to be fucking betrayed. Why me, Q? What is it against me?”

Q shakes his head, ignoring the scrape of the floor and the pounding of what he supposes is a developing concussion. “I love you with every bit of my being, James, and I’ve never told more truth in my entire life.”

After a calculating moment, Bond lets out a shaky breath, “shut the fuck up. Don’t you bloody dare say those words to me”

Q feels every piece of his heart break off when it shatters. He can’t hold it back anymore and now the sobbing won’t stop.

“James,” Q hiccoughs, “please….”

Bond slaps him hard enough for the skin to break, Q knows because he can feel a warm stickiness drip from the new stinging area on his cheek. He tongues at his lower molars, searching for the cyanide pill implant. If James, of all people, didn’t believe him, who would? Q doesn’t think he can handle anymore of this interrogation.

To his horror, the pill has been removed.

“You took my cyanide implant?” Q chokes. Bond is up again and pacing, hands running through his hair while he thinks. Q has never seen him this upset and lost. Never at home and never in the field. Bond chooses to ignore him while he continues to think.

“I’m not Vesper. I’m not,” Q tries. Maybe Bond will be rash enough to kill him for that. Q has always been one of the few privy to information on extreme interrogation techniques and would rather end this before it gets to that point. 

Instead, Bond yanks him back up to sitting position and starts to undo the cuffs binding him to the chair. Q knows that it’s not in good faith, however, because Bond is rough and impatient, not gentle and apologetic. The worst is always yet to come.

As soon as Q is off the chair, Bond throws him back to the ground. Q grunts but swallows his screams. He refuses to give him the satisfaction.

“I trusted you,” Bond yells, “I gave you everything I have to give. I’ve never felt so played with in my entire career. Congratulations, Q, you’ve topped Vesper. How does that fucking make you feel?” Bond delivers another aimless barrage of kicks and Q takes it, instinctively covering his head. He futilely tries to kick back but they both know that it does absolutely nothing to deter Bond’s attacks.

“Your laugh is my favorite,” Q sobs, “the way you smile and your eyes light up when you’re amused. That little quirk in the corner of your lips, that hint of a smirk before you go full blown laughter,” he grunts when Bond applies pressure on his shoulder. Q’s sure that it’s dislocated now. “And the little things, I love that you pay attention to the little things,” a hacking cough, “like the way you make my Earl Grey to perfection. Steeped for two minutes and thirty seconds on the dot with two freshly squeezed lemon slices and a pinch of sugar,” he spits up blood this time while Bond lands a blow to his temple.

“I’ve never hated a single person more than I hate you,” Bond spits. He raises his foot and is about to smash Q’s knee. But the door is flung open with a reverberating crash and the horrid brightness startles both Bond and Q. 

“Double-oh Seven, cease interrogation immediately,” M pants, “it’s a setup. Q’s been framed. He’s innocent,” M swallows uncomfortably, “Q’s innocent.”

Bond is blinks twice and then is immediately switching modes. He doesn’t say a word but Q reads the look in his eye. The cuffs are taken off all the way before Bond scoops him up and personally hauls him to Medical.

For Bond’s sake, Q pretends not to notice the tears beginning to stream down Bond’s face.

 

~

“Don’t worry so much, Mum, I’ve been settling in just fine. There’s a lovely view from the study, you’ll have to see it next time you visit,” Q wedges his mobile between his ear and his shoulder while he fills the kettle. “Yes, yes, don’t worry about it. Love you, too, Mum. Good night.”

With the kettle going and his mother off the phone, Q surveys his new flat until he spots one of his cats. He gently scoops her up and settles into the couch, snuggling her to his chest while grabbing his laptop, balancing it precariously on the arm rest. 

MI6 really outdid themselves. Q thinks this all unnecessary but doesn’t dare complain, less he wants to listen to M’s endless apology speech yet again. Sometimes he almost feels guilty. Almost.

There’s a knock at the door and Q glances over, slightly confused. Considering that this building is a MI6-approved, the security is tight. Q isn’t expecting anyone, especially not at this hour. 

Curiously, Q gets up to check the monitor built into the wall. He toggles the screen until it shows him the CCTV footage directly outside his door. 

It’s Bond.

Q relaxes with the realisation that his life isn’t in any danger. However, the tension is only replaced with the nerves that accompany any interactions with Bond. It’s not like Q wants it to be that way, it’s definitely not on purpose. If he could pick, he’d put his feelings back to normal. Back to how they were  _ before _ . 

Q opens the door and Bond nods, equally as tense. He’s carrying a large moving box and glances between it and Q, as if trying to decide on something.

“Come in,” Q makes the decision for him and holds open the door. It’s not a suggestion, it’s a command. Bond doesn’t object. He sets the box down on the coffee table and awkwardly stands, hands shoved deep into his trouser pockets.

“It’s the rest of your things from our--er-- _ my  _ closet. It’s the nice ties, thought I should bring them over myself, expedite the process,” Bond rambles. He pauses nervously, a sharp breath, “I’m sorry--”

“No, Bond, don’t,” Q sighs, “M already apologises my ear off, the last thing I need is for you, out of everyone, to join the choir.”

“I’m awful,” Bond murmurs. Q barely catches it but doesn’t comment. He glances at Bond and looks at him, really looks at him, for the first time in a good while. His under-eyes are dark and puffier than Q remembers. His eyes are bloodshot, his hair untidy, and his facial hair haphazard patches of stubble. Q knows that Bond is sober but he can still smell days of scotch imprinted in the fabrics of his suit.

James Bond is a mess. 

“You know I don’t blame you,” Q offers.

Bond scoffs, “that’s the worst part.”

“I’m not a field agent but I’m still MI6. You were following orders. It’s your job. I do not blame you--and will never blame you--for doing your job.”

The shriek of the kettle interrupts them. Q tells Bond to sit while he fetches their tea. 

“Do you still take it the same way?” Q doesn’t make eye contact but he starts making Bond’s cup the way he remembers.

“Yes, that’s fine,” Bond nods politely. He keeps silent long enough for Q to finish making his own cup and take the first sip.

“You take your tea differently,” Bond points out. Q can’t pick up on any emotion colouring his statement. It’s merely an observation.

“A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down,” Q shrugs. 

Bond winces and pauses again. Q can practically hear the creak and click of the gears turning round in Bond’s head while he calculates, while he decides. 

“I miss you,” Bond finally whispers. Q closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. 

“Bond--” Q stops, “James,” he corrects, “I miss you more than anything that’s even gone. I still love you more than a sane person should love anyone. Believe me when I tell you that I just can’t control it. I’m working with Psych, I really am, but I can’t magically decide that I can be stable around you. If I had the power to change this, I would. I want nothing more than to be back in our flat, drinking my tea the way you remember. But I’m not ready. Not yet.”

Bond reaches out to touch Q’s shoulder but Q flinches under the touch and Bond pulls back as if he’s burnt himself.

“You should go,” Q says, his voice breaking in the middle of the sentence. He looks away. Bond knows that he’s crying but doesn’t say anything, just stands and makes to leave.

“I’ll come back to you one day,” Q braves, just as Bond opens the door, “if you’ll wait for me.”

“I will always wait for you.”

Without even looking, Q feels the shroud of loneliness hit as soon as Bond is gone.

 

~

 

 

“There we are, Double-oh Seven, up the stairs and round the corner, there should a window approximately four meters ahead. It opens over a rooftop, about a two and a half meter drop.”

“Perfect,” says Bond. Q hears a couple shots go off followed by shattering

“You could’ve just opened it,” Q hums, amused, “there should be a fire escape to your nine o’clock.”

Bond laughs, “Now where’s the fun in that, Q? I’ll be in the clear in about five minutes. Standby until I get a good distance away from the facility.”

“Standing by,” Q nods, sipping from his mug.

“Enjoying your cup of sugar with a splash of tea?” Bond teases. Q can perfectly picture the smirk on his face. “It’s disgusting, the amount of sugar you poison your cup with.”

“I’ll have you know that I’m down to half a scoop now, ta.”

“Ah, progress, must taste so good.”

Q can’t help smiling now.

“Baby steps,” he quips. “Once you’re clear, you can return to your hotel. You’ll have an hour to clean up, but I’d hurry because your flight leaves in two. The next one is in two days and we’d prefer not send a private extraction.” 

“Two days? This is what happens when you send me to a bloody island.”

“Yes, well, if you’re a good boy, you’ll be back at  _ this _ cozy island in six hours.”

“Do good boys get rewards,” Bond braves. Q freezes but quickly tries to regain his composure.

“I guess he’ll just have to wait and find out.”

Despite it, Q can tell that Bond sees right through him, and the easy flow is gone, the too-familiar tension returned.

Baby steps.


End file.
